


Mad Love

by Isagel



Category: The Shield
Genre: Alley Blow Jobs, Alley Sex, Derogatory Language, Dominance, Episode Related, Held Down, M/M, Ownership, Possessive Sex, Rough Oral Sex, Submission
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:39:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4456934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Make-up sex, Vic/Shane-style.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mad Love

**Author's Note:**

> An older fic I hadn't previously posted to the AO3. Set within the context of episode 4x11, after Shane has come "clean" to the captain about his dealings with Antwon Mitchell.

Ronnie and Lem have parked out front, but Vic’s new car, the one Danny rustled up for him, is on the other side of the block from the diner, and so it’s just the two of them, him and Shane, walking back through the alley. Heading back to the Barn after dinner.

The night is starless and chilly, thick with city smells and distant noises, but right here, between the high walls of the buildings, they’re alone, and they’re neither of them hurrying their steps.

Shane pulls a pack of cigarettes from his jacket, taps one out to stick between his lips. Pauses for a second to light it, cupping the flame with his palm. The warm glow strokes his cheekbone as he takes the first drag, flares amber in his wide eyes. Vic has stopped for him, stands waiting while he slips the lighter back in the front pocket of his tight-fitting jeans. Doesn’t pretend he isn’t watching.

“Figure I’d better catch a smoke while I’ve got the chance,” Shane says, flicking ashes to the ground with a twist of his hand, “seeing how you’ve gone all prissy about that car of yours. I’m afraid to have a look in your desk drawers, in case they show up orderly and you really are turning into Dutch-boy.”

There’s a grin at the end of that sentence, a lazy flash of teeth in the darkness. It’s easy, this, so effortless after all those months of resentment and anger it makes his head spin - sharing a joke, sharing a meal, sharing a ride back to the station. Shane on his side again, where he belongs. 

Simple, where everything else is complicated, and he can’t wait any longer, doesn’t know how he waited this long.

A step forward, two, and his hands are in the leather of Shane’s jacket, pushing him back, pushing him up against the wall, shifting to hold his wrists when he tries to move, press his hands into the brick. Leaning his weight into the heat of him.

The cigarette falls from Shane’s fingers, hits the concrete burning, smoldering as it rolls to a stop. The smoke rises beside them, but he can smell it heavier on Shane’s breath.

“Hey!” Shane protests. “Vic, what the hell…?” But he doesn’t fight back, doesn’t struggle, and then he feels it, Vic’s hard-on shoved against his thigh. His entire body goes pliant, malleable, from one moment to the next, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, Vic, fuck. Come on.” 

Vic rubs himself against long, lean muscle and Shane arcs beneath him, narrow hips bucking wild, seeking friction against his body. Vic drops one hand down to cup Shane’s crotch through his pants, feels his cock leap to full hardness under his palm.

“Slut,” he says, digging the heel of his hand in for emphasis, watching Shane squirm, scrabble for purchase with his free hand in the sleeve of Vic’s hoodie. The word comes out affectionate and predatory, a grin against Shane’s ear.

“Never claimed any different,” Shane says, grinning, too, cocky and full of it as ever.

Vic drags his teeth along the curve of his throat, bites at the old scar at the line of his jaw. There is a rattle of metal from the buckle on Shane’s belt as Vic fumbles it open, grapples with the buttons on his jeans, and then all he hears is Shane’s harsh breathing, the low growl from his own throat when Shane’s cock fills his fist.

Hot and hard and he squeezes down, almost too rough, strokes his thumb in circles over the wet head. Shane shudders, twists, all that wiry strength rising to meet him, and Vic has to slam his wrist back against the wall, hold him in place with the bulk of his body. He’s so hard himself he barely knows how to stay upright, but Shane must be taking more than half his weight, pinned down and pinning him up.

“Fuck,” Shane pants, his head dropping back against the wall with a dull thud. ”Fuck, Vic. Just do it.” 

Vic glances up to see that Shane’s eyes have fallen almost shut, long lashes twitching erratically, casting wild shadows over his cheeks. His lips are slightly parted, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallows back a moan. It’s a fucking embarrassing faggot kind of thought, but sometimes he thinks that Shane might be the prettiest person he’s ever fucked. It makes him want to take him harder, leave him bruised and marked and shaking, makes him want to hold him as if he really is as vulnerable as the look in those goddamn Bambi eyes. When he thinks that he let Shane go, that Shane might not have come back… 

There is no word for the gunshot-wound ache inside his chest.

He pulls his hand down the length of Shane’s shaft and up again, tight and rough and just what Shane wants, and Shane groans, tells him, ”Yeah. Yeah, you crazy son of a bitch, like that.” Tells him, ”Please.” 

He chuckles at that, happy and raw against the pulse he sees beating in Shane’s neck, rubs faster, because he doesn’t know how to draw this out. 

“Yeah, that’s what you like,” he says, “ain’t it, Shane?” Tease and encouragement, and he can taste Shane’s sweat where his lips brush skin, can feel his fingers dig into his arm. Through his t-shirt, the edge of the badge Shane wears on his belt scrapes his stomach with every move they make. “That’s right, show me how you missed it. Come on.”

“ _God_ ,” Shane says. “Jesus. _Vic_.” 

And that’s it, that’s all it takes before Shane is shooting over his fingers, biting his lip to hold in the sounds, tensing, taut like a bow in Vic’s grip, and then shivering, shaking as he tumbles over the edge. Goddamn gorgeous, and Vic thrusts against his hip in response, keeps stroking him through it, until Shane’s dick twitches limp in his hand and he’s simply standing there, holding it, as Shane’s breathing evens out against his scalp. 

Shane draws a deep breath, the exhale shaky with something like laughter, and his hand comes up to squeeze the back of Vic’s neck. The buckle on his leather wristband catches skin, pinprick sharp beneath the warmth of his touch.

“Man,” he says. “I can’t believe I thought quitting the team was a good idea.” Then, low and greedy, soft Southern drawl a spread of temptation, “I bet I’ve got a pretty good idea what you’ve been missing, though.”

He pushes, an oddly gentle exertion of pressure, and Vic takes a step back, lets Shane slip from his grip, gives him enough room to move. 

All Shane does is slide to his knees.

Right there, in the tight space between Vic’s body and the wall, reaching for Vic’s fly without hesitation, wanting this, and the smile on his lips is a challenge, but the look in his eyes is all the things that turn Vic inside out. 

Vic wraps his hand around the back of Shane’s head, thumb resting at his temple, and Shane leans just that little bit into the touch as he pulls Vic’s zipper down, eases his dick free. The night air is cold as fuck, but then there is Shane’s hand, guiding him, Shane’s mouth, taking him in. Those full lips closing around the head of his cock, and Shane shuts his eyes, makes this perfect muffled groan around the mouthful he’s holding, and strokes his tongue against Vic’s flesh. 

The spike of pleasure nearly whites out his vision, and he slumps forward, putting his hand out across Shane’s kneeling body to catch himself against the wall, his fingers still sticky with Shane’s spunk where they press against the brick.

The new angle tips Shane’s head back, pushes the curve of his skull into Vic’s palm, shoves Vic’s cock deeper into his mouth. His hands grab at Vic’s hips, but it’s not resistance, just a reach for balance. Every part of him stays open, stays willing, his mouth eager and hungry, taking what Vic gives, giving what Vic needs.

It’s easy, and right, and he hopes Shane knows, hopes Shane can tell how much he really has missed it.

He’s been sucked off by hookers who do this for a living, all day, every day, skanks who’ve taken cock-sucking to the level of art, but Shane knows what he wants, and Shane means it. Shane means all of it.

No one - not Corrine, not Danny, no woman who’s gone to her knees in gratitude because of some hell he’s saved her from - no one has ever given it up to him like Shane does.

 _Mad love,_ Antwon Mitchell said, _You’re lucky your boy has mad love for you._

And he knows he’s lucky, he doesn’t need some cop-killing drug dealer with a messiah complex to tell him how fucking lucky he is.

One bullet to the back of Vic’s neck, and Shane could have saved himself, his family; one bullet and Antwon could have made all his problems go away. But instead, Shane chose to come clean, to come back, to come home. Where Vic can take care of him, where Vic can keep him safe and lean on him. He knows his own goddamn luck better than anyone.

Shane’s lips are hot and tight around him, and he can’t keep himself from thrusting forward, from fucking down into that perfect mouth. Shane makes a soft, startled sound, his nostrils flaring wide as he tries not to gag, but his hands pull Vic closer, not away, and his head rests unmoving in the cup of Vic’s hand. As if all he needs to feel safe, even after everything, is for Vic to hold on to him. 

Vic squeezes the nape of his neck, strokes his thumb along his hairline, reassurance and reward, grits his teeth not to let the whole block in on how fucking good this is. Through the sound of his own blood pounding in his ears, he hears the wet noise his cock makes as it slides in and out of Shane’s mouth, lewd and blatant in the silence.

When all this is over - when Shane has passed the captain’s lie-detector test like the consummate little bullshitter he is, when they’ve nailed Antwon for the deaths of those unis and wiped every remnant of that self-satisfied smirk off his face for good - then he’ll drive them across town, somewhere well off the Farm, and get them a motel room where keeping quiet won’t be an issue. A place where he can spread Shane out on the bed, skinny ass in the air, and fuck him until he’ll feel it every time he sits down for a week to come. 

Shane will like that. He always does best when he can feel who’s in charge, when he knows who will look out for him. Vic should never have let him forget that he’s the one who’ll be there, that he won’t let go. He should never have let Shane find so much trouble. Ultimately, it’s his responsibility. It always is.

Shane is his boy.

At least Antwon got that one right in the end.

It’s the first time in too many months that he’s doing this, and it’s not as if slow and careful has ever been his style; it’s sure as hell not what Shane wants from him. He doesn’t hold back, doesn’t try to rein himself in. Simply thrusts into Shane’s mouth, hard and fast and merciless, knowing that Shane can take it, that Shane will take it, even when his breathing goes harsh and desperate, when his hands clutch harder at Vic’s sides. It’s simple, to bury himself in Shane’s body, again and again, to sink as deep as he can, until all he feels is the need to be there, the need to lose himself in this, in this incredible, frightening trust that Shane offers up, that he thought he’d lost. 

When he comes, it’s with a sudden gasp, a bright flare of heat in his groin, in his chest. He knows it’s the wall that keeps him standing while Shane swallows every drop squeezed from his balls, but it feels as though it’s Shane’s hands on his hips.

He doesn’t remember to relax his hold on Shane until his cock slips half empty from his lips; even when he’s caught his breath enough to pull himself upright, he can’t quite make himself let go completely, his hand staying in Shane’s hair. Shane shifts forward as he shifts back, following, leaning his forehead against Vic’s belly. 

“Jesus,” he says, between breaths that are still shaky, uneven and quick. Vic feels every exhale, warm against the root of his cock.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Yeah, I know.” 

They both sound wrecked, like they’ve been chasing a suspect on foot through half of Farmington. Or maybe it's stunned, like they kicked down the wrong door and they’re the only ones standing after the bullets stopped flying.

For once, he can’t think of anything clever to say.

Then Shane laughs, a quick, ragged huff of laughter, and bends lower, just low enough to press his parted lips to Vic’s balls, swipe his tongue across them, from one to the other. It’s unexpected and unprecedented, and the touch makes Vic’s cock twitch against Shane’s cheek as though it has any hope of pulling off a second round. Shane chuckles again, barely more than a sharpened breath, but it’s filled with a desperate sort of amusement.

“Want to let me in on the joke there, Shane?” Vic asks.

“It’s nothing,” Shane says, straightening his back, sitting back on his heels. “Just making a point, is all. That one was for Antwon.”

He doesn’t quite get the reference, and he isn’t sure he wants to know any more details of what passed between Shane and Antwon than he already does. But if this is how Shane gets the last word, then he’s all for it.

“Guess I’ll have to thank him, then,” he says. “Next time I pay him a visit on Death Row.”

Shane looks up at that, looks him dead in the eye.

“Oh, come on,” he says. “Now you’re just _trying_ to give me a hard-on.”

They both crack up at the same time.

He doesn't ever intend to lose this again.


End file.
